


Up In the Trees, I Know a Place We Could Go (can we go home?)

by I_See_The_Stars_15



Series: Secrets Kept Close, Feelings Pushed Away [1]
Category: Hermitcraft RPF
Genre: Angst and Feels, Gen, How Do I Tag, Mental Breakdown, No Dialogue, One Shot, Vague Characters, Xisuma has magic, burn-out, no beta we die like men, voidkind!Xisuma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:13:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24570619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_See_The_Stars_15/pseuds/I_See_The_Stars_15
Summary: Xisuma is not from here, but he'd rather not think about it. Today is just one of those days where he has no choice but tothink.
Series: Secrets Kept Close, Feelings Pushed Away [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1775941
Comments: 5
Kudos: 115





	Up In the Trees, I Know a Place We Could Go (can we go home?)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'I Know a Place' by Conan Grey

When he woke up, it was to a heavy feeling in his bones and a crushing weight in his heart. He woke up to too saturated colors, too prominent noise, and a too empty head. He woke up feeling in pain and numb all at once and he knew then and there how his day was going to be.

When he puts on his helmet, colored black and yellow to be one with the hive he cares for, he darkens the visor and mutes the outside world, breathing in too heavy air and breathing out anxieties he doesn’t know the source of. When he puts on his gloves over marred palms and scarred hands, it feels almost like the burdens of the world are his to catch once more. He walks with a vague pounding in his chest and knows that weight will not leave him be any time soon.

In the small space he calls his kitchen, he looks over the empty kettle by the sink and for a moment ponders making tea as he usually would on normal mornings. Today however does not seem like a normal morning, and so refrains, grabbing a loaf of bread instead to munch on as he watches the sun slowly rise, and with it bile creeping up his throat. He swallows the feelings of inadequacy along with his meager breakfast and stands, knowing that the world will turn even without him, and he prefers to move with it and not be left behind.

He goes to places of high activity and ensures all is working well. When a mustached man approaches him for help with a machine that seems to bug out more times than it works, he pushes down the ache in his heart and replaces the grim look in his eyes with one of carefully fabricated joy. When a warrior with goggles attached on her forehead asks to spar, he obliges with practiced movements, and fights back both her and the weariness seeping into his hand and making him tighten the grip on his weapon. 

When an old friend looks at him with pleas shining in his doe-eyes, he ignores the sigh building in his lungs and focuses on building concrete roads and sprawling skyscrapers. He places block after block in its correct place, wishing it was just as easy to place himself in the world and feel like he belongs. He tries to continue as he always does, but his words come out slower and softer, his posture is too stiff and formal even for him. His companion is the first to notice, asking with his silky voice questions that feel rough in his own mouth, rougher than the lies that easily find itself spilling out of his mouth.

The assurance of his well-being does not fool his friend, but they let the topic go after a hushed conversation by the cranes. The roads do not build themselves, but he leaves long before they can be completed, excuses of other duties covering his true intentions. His friend sees through it but leaves him be, wishing for his safety as he leaves. Safety however is the last thing on his mind as he flies above the sea, wondering of everything and nothing all at once, his brain loud in the silence.

When he steps through the portal to take him to the End, the silence that welcomes him is unlike the one that has consumed him the rest of the day. This silence was comforting, like the embrace of a mother who doesn’t need words to convey her love for a child (not like he would know of it.) It wraps around him like another layer of armor, meant to protect and not to suffocate.

He sits on the edge of a smaller, isolated island, devoid of life besides for the tall chorus plants growing in the center. He removes his helmet and places it beside him, making it revert to its standard green, gray and purple design. He closes his eyes and listens to the world around him, the cold prickling his skin in a way that can’t be replicated. The feeling of magic runs through him, making him lighter and heavier all the same.

He breathes in.

_He thinks of darkness, of warm arms protecting him from the cold, catching him when he falls. There’s glimpses of white against black, of red against green, and for some reason it feels safe._

He breathes out.

_He thinks of blinding light, of screeches and screams for a person whose name is lost on his tongue. He sees unfamiliar terrain, unfamiliar faces, and all he can focus on is how hollow he feels._

He opens his eyes, and for a moment he imagines a face, staring back at him. He wonders if the eyes are filled with the warmth of love, or the fire of hatred. It would be so easy to bring him back, to speak his true name and call for him, but names have power. They can bring you success, and consequence. He is too afraid of the latter to do anything.

He speaks his own name, lost to the void, and amidst the weight on his chest and the choked sobs coming out of his throat, he reaches for the power he was told his name would have. He ends up grasping at nothing, and for the first time that day, he releases a pitiful wail that echoes in a place with no walls.

It’s a wail of sorrow, of anger, of loathing all aimed at the self. He wails for his losses: lost friends, lost family, lost opportunities, lost smiles. He wails and he sobs and he reaches for someone who can’t reach back, stopped by the walls he placed there in the first place. His lungs feel like they have flowers in them, taking root in his agony and coming out in crimson blossoms, stained with tears and sins. The weight is too much and he suffocates under the burden of a world he was never prepared to look after alone, under the burden of holding people as he wished to be held, under the burden of having to feel numb everyday until he all burst, weeks of regrets and blunders flooding out until there’s nothing left for him to call his.

He cries in a timeless place, with only the ground beneath him as witness to all his faults. When his mouth and eyes are too dry, and his chest feels too empty and still as jarring as it was this morning when it was too full, he stands, places on his helmet, and once again takes his titles back. This won’t be the first time he breaks, and this won’t be the last, and he knows that these times will be few and far in between. He knows he will force himself to be numb, to be empty so his friends can fill in the blanks for him, so he can be whatever they need him to be.

When he returns to his base, throat sore and body hollow, he sits on his bed to watch the sun set. He removes his gloves and runs his fingers over the scars marking his hand. He traces each one, feeling tiny sparks of pain fill his numb heart as the stars slowly start to shine. He tells each story the scars have, listens as they sing with his touches. They tell stories of an ongoing battle he knows he will never win. They tell stories of each battle he lost and each battle he survived, victory nonexistent the moment he opened his eyes to the light of the Overworld.

He softly hums a song that sounds discordant but beautiful all the same. It’s a song from long ago, lost in time and memory, filling his base with memories of a past he dares not remember. Memories of family, of love, and memories of war and separation, dart through the hallways, bringing with it haunting laughs and heart-wrenching cries. 

It’s quiet, he thinks when he closes his eyes. It’s quiet and in that quiet, in that soundless void that envelops him, he can pretend he is home. Never mind that home was taken away, never mind that home is no longer something he knows. He pretends that there are arms wrapped around him, of a brother lulling him to sleep. He pretends that tomorrow, he will wake up on yellow stone, wake up to purple light and soft words in a tongue he doesn’t claim as his. He pretends that he is happy, that he is feeling, that he is free.

He pretends not to know that it is all pretend, and as he drifts off to sleep, he knows it’s enough to pretend, to make himself lost in hazy labyrinths. He knows it’s enough, and that’s enough for him.

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any suggestions for characters or songs to write about, leave them in the comments below! I appreciate all the support I can get.


End file.
